The floating gods

The pastel city of Viriconium was a temple of lost hope. The gods had come down to frolic drunkenly in the gutters. Time had been stretched so thin as to lose its meaning. The pestilence had spread from the Low City to the High. And the last great artist sat in the plague zone where she waited for the end. Something had to be done. Ashlyme had to do it. And in that year of the apocalypse, he was the only man who dared.